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Step by Step/Issue 30
This is Issue #30 of Step by Step. This is the sixth and last issue of Volume Five. Midnight's King He would wake up and stir a few nights when at summer camp. When he would hear that single noise–a sliver of near nothing outside his cabin–he'd imagine. Nolan found out that sounds, the dainty ones not heard in the day, would seem super loud. A slow dripping of water, the trickle of air blowing outside. Whatever, it'd send shivers down his spine. Be disturbing. Perhaps it was the floorboards with roaches running on them. Or perhaps it was the hum of a mosquito. Noises would get louder, crawl over closer. Then his imagination would hunger. The darkness would make him wonder and it would feed the dark red light in his head. The imagination hungers for darkness. Night would always come. It's dark always at night. The nights were long and hideous, so he was glad by the time day broke fully. Much like this noonday. He hadn't convinced himself the nightmares had stopped, the evil'd been too strong. The moans now rose and fell, rose and fell, and rose and fell. He didn't really have to look to feel the horror. Nolan tried to forget about Alexander, how he'd held the boy's life by a shoe-string. It was hard because he had to remember. Had to since the dead were a-walking, dew was a-sprinkling and snow was a-rolling. As they stood around the wall ovens, Carter walking over to Jacob Davis, Nolan gave a wordless gaze to Joseph who was at the bathroom door. He had that thousand-yard stare gunk. The lights were on, Hector had worked up a small flame, and Joseph was staring right at him. He was with bugged-out eyes, hugging the bathroom door with his back. He took the stare from Nolan, smiled, and let it splat on the floor. Rosy cheeked, walking along, Nolan's teeth started to clatter. He was going by Joseph when in the lobby the noise quivered to the smallest degree. The bitter cold griped his hands tight. He glanced at the lobby door, looked it over and then went to it. He heard the police-boy Hector make a slight move after, but it was Carter who followed behind. "Catch a sound, send it right over," he heard himself say. All that was missing were steaming hot mugs of hot cocoa. "I know now I was wrong," Hector spoke from behind. "And I don't mind apologizing over and over. I can't erase what's happened." "Just shut up," Joseph said. "You're angry, I get that." Carter hissed and said, "Lay off the poor guy, Joe. Wasn't his fault the two of you went balls-up with your butterfingers." "Yeah," Hector said, running a hand down his neck. "The man's right. Wasn't my fault." "Wasn't his fault." "Yeah." Nolan, reaching the lobby door, heard Lilian shush the police-boy. The door, a labyrinth of symbols etched in wood. He placed a hand on it. A sense of twenty degrees below swept his palm. His gut told him to back up. He didn't. For a long minute Carter laid back and watched. A bitter cold had seeped through his gloves, numbing his fingers. He walked on and put his side to Nolan. They looked quizzically at the door, like kids eyeballing a neighbor's window they shattered. A chilling wind broke in from somewhere, and they had no idea where from. "The front door." Amanda said. "Someone's in." Nolan looked back and said, "You think?" "Your bottom dollar." Hector voiced a wet-snotty groan. "Hold on a second." Nolan pressed his ear to the door. Colder than a witch's heart. Followed by that, both palms to it. He was back in camp, hearing the slow rustles of tree branches. Perhaps the hum of mosquitoes. Skeeters a-buzzing, closer and closer. The door went with a violent jolt, came like a big push. Felt like a big, fat bouncer had struck it. This was it. Nolan faltered back and the door shot ajar. What he saw, what he expected, was a black swarm of mosquitoes. Buzzing, hauling ass at him. That was when he realized his eyes had shut. Scared, he opened them. A much clearer visual came to him. It was a piece of antique farm equipment–a ripe saying he'd heard in a rest stop–with a rifle big 'nuff to splatter brains from here to there. "Gimme the loot." His words barely came out. He dipped forward a foot or three, hacking up a fat greener. The fool, to Nolan's perception, couldn't be more than a neck above thirty. Though, he didn't expect the man to bring up his shoulder to his chin. The two rolled back into the kitchen, man repeating "Gimme the loot," and "show me it". Late to the party but closest, Carter Jameson barked at the man and shoved him a good one. "You stay back. You stay there!" The man only half-heard that. Malcolm arrived to them at a jog, face stricken with fright. Behind him came Wayne and Eugene, the others mindfully riding over. Hector, and for a good God reason, stayed back. As Joseph shined his way to the crowd, he saw Hector looking dumber than a bucket full of turd. And if he had walked over–no doubt, he was thinking it over–Joseph would have been inclined to put a purple shiner on his face. Back up straight, the man wagged a hand at Carter. The soldier, thanks to the adrenal, didn't lose an inch of ground. "Do me a favor, and lower that behemoth." "Some friend of mine said I should use the most dangerous slug--" The man eased his rifle up a few well-earned spaces. Barrel to Carter's face, the morning light cut across him. From behind, Nolan could see a web of colors streaming in from outside. When he came back to the man, he noticed the boy-o was in navy blue coveralls. "--hollowpoints." The man's nametag said it all. "Isn't that right?" Nolan fixed him up with a look, one of tired grit. "Ben Dunlap, we ain't the droids you lookin for." The man startled in his skin. "I want your loot." "Fine." Nolan said, finally getting the and he looked around. "All's yours. This ship's booty's so nice, y'gotta pinch it twice." Truth be told, Nolan was shaking with fright. Sweat rolled down his spine, a sweaty haunt covering the small of his back. He was hardly over the scare he'd had. There had to be more to it, not just a jester's grin. He thought about it, then gave up when he saw Alex poke into his train of thought. The kid wasn't coming back, yet it felt real in his noggin. "Take it all." Hector groaned, and Nolan turned to see Lilian smack him upside the head. He let his guard down, too mesmerized, but they all were dumbfounded by the red sky of the morning. A ripple of red and orange blurred the kitchen walls and covered all. And in a moment's time, the whole kitchen was burning with colors. "Now you crank that gun down a notch," Carter Jameson said. "You ought do what the man says," Nolan added. Dunlap grinned near madly. Must have still wanted the loot. "We can ..." Nolan glanced over Ben as he heard a loud shout and his heart stopped. A chilling, subzero feel rolled down his throat. He couldn't believe it when, in entirety, he saw three figures creep into the church and emerge at the pews. Two of them broke into a jog, and the other barely made a show. There were screaming, hollering, and a snapping mess of dogs. When down below the low-already Bible Belt (Hell, it was a burning-belt.), Nolan would've never described winter as cold. To him, a Georgia's last month was a hot boil. He'd never compare it with a Hoosier winter. Those gluttony, crystal white blizzards he'd seen growing up were a work of nature. On the eve of ten years old, his uncle told him a tale about a cousin of his. Long in the before, this cousin had his feet turn a twisted brown after slipping under thin January ice. He'd moan and howl all day and night, until one time during the day his agony came to a bitter end from the sharp side of a woodcutter's ax. And damn if he didn't, his uncle told him he had the same axe in his attic. Said his cousin had made his blood run cold with those screams of his. That's how Nolan felt when he saw Lyle. A moment of realization, and then Nolan saw Ben Dunlap hit the ground. Couldn't have made a lotta sense who righteously took him down since much was an orange blur. First Carter was going at him, then Wayne who pinned Dunlap down on his back. "He's gun a gun! He's got a gun!" someone shouted. For the record, Amanda had long taken Dunlap's gun for her own. "Fuck ya!" Ben Dunlap wriggled on the floor, a hand belonging to Malcolm's flat on his bare neck. "Hold im down," Carter slammed his knees into the man's loins. "Hold im down." Hector raced to them, flapping the shotgun in one hand's grasp. "Don't move, I swear to God! I'll blow his head right off, I swear!" "Jesus Christ." Nolan was the only worm not squirming then. He was still, watching the three men huddle at the door where Ben Dunlap had once stood at. One tall, the other of the average, and the other a low-strung man in alpine green overwear. Thing was, the so-called average man was slicker than the average. Lyle Jackson, slicker than most, had slithered his way back. He was laughing, and for some goddam, Nolan went and laughed with him. Didn't care, in particular, where he'd been. Where he had gone to. All was right, then. It was, in fact, the epitome of safe for the doors were bolted shut and as Lyle would explain later, the lot of dead outside were moving away. They'd gone up and left after a pair of cars, he'd said, a police buggy and a shitbox. The cluster of living dead however, tussling with the long-dead farmboy beyond the restroom's porthole, were still so thick you could cut them with a knife, and would stay snarling til kingdom come. ---- King's Christian Church. That's where he was. That's where it went down. It was during December 10th–day after a prized "moon-day"–when the entire state had fell into a heap of blue ice. A red scare, mostly for Lyle, it was. These winds, these chills, these motherfuckers were the worst he'd dealt with. Mama of his always made her home-made soups and brews at about this time. The soup, the brew would warm him down to the cuffs of his toes. On this day there was no soup, only a big freeze. As of late, he'd been having dreams. Those types of dreams that are out of true. The kinda ones that stick. This dream, best to call it a nightmare, was something that lurched his balls the wrong way. What he'd seen in it made his heart stop. Two white men, plodding along with this white horse, were each holding the arms of a black boy down in a heap of mud. It scared him. Then, nearly on cue, Nolan crossed into view. Wasn't alone, after him came Dennis and Derek. None too serious, so Lyle could have cared less. He wondered what they wanted him for, and more importantly, who from the sidelines was watching this go down. He looked over to both sides of the hallway. The stairway behind him had several tables and sofas lodged between the steps of it. Beyond that, an unfortunate snarling truth shambling about. He walked on, moved past the attic's trapdoor, and took a kerosene lamp left to the side on a small wall hook. Hell, that was the goodness that came from faith, hope, and charity. He ignited the lamp's wick, casting aglow the hallway. He saw a few folks resting in some of these second-story rooms. He found Wayne waving at him from a chair, was about to go to him, but then he heard and shot one look at Hector Pacino sobbing not too far away. He saw Joseph was neither here, there, nor anywhere in sight. What he didn't see was Carter Jameson trail him from behind. The trio had split into a room at the far end. Lyle followed through the cavernous path. Holding the kerosene lamp in front of him, Lyle saw a great many rooms that the hall held. Up to the left corner of the wall, thick spindles of white webbed across. To the right, where he was headed, he saw a plaque mounted on the wall. It read to be a verse from the Holy Book: Jesus said to him, “Get up, take up your bed, and walk.” Walk he did, straight after Nolan. The room was a lot smaller, and even with the lamp, darker than a black pond. He near bumped into Nolan, who near bumped into Derek, and that would have ended horribly. "Yo?" Nolan was quick to speak. "Yo, J." Lyle set the kerosene lamp on a drawer. "Time's to talk is now." "Shoulda waited for Wayne," Dennis pitched. The room was an arctic plain. It was like the Sahara outside, a long expanse of snow. In the church, modest by all means, peace came with the numbing cold. "Gimme the gun," Lyle said. No answer. "Scar, the gun. You ain't deaf." The man handed over the revolver, and Lyle emptied its contents on the drawer. He spaced out the solids, scoring up a tally of four. He grinned–with a shit-eating grin full of glee–and toppled one of the bullets into his palm. Thanks to the dark not even an owl would’ve seen that. Only him, all him. "Sure don't look too smart." Dennis said. Lyle left the other three rounds, closed the cylinder, and popped back the hammer. He popped the chamber in empty. "This here's no better time for you all to listen up. Eye's peeled. Wouldn't wanna get the McTwitches." "Whatsa matter, with you?" Derek took a long stride forward. Lyle Jackson examined the revolver, pushed it against his hip and smiled wildly in the yellow glow of burning oil. Midnight oil, he was definitely in for some of that. "Playing a game. Might work well for the room afterwards. Red's the new black. " "This isn't funny, man." "Yes." Nolan said, awfully hoarse. "Back off it." "We have a lot to talk about, but I guess it can wait." He took a breath, sounded more like a wheeze. "Nobody gets to leave from here on. No checking out. Nobody here can give you a pass on things. I won't. Just a game of risk." "And if you're a man," Lyle said. He suddenly pulled up the revolver, put a single shell in the cylinder, and spinned the cylinder. "You take it." He snapped the cylinder back in place, put it to his head and pulled the trigger. The room was all click, no crack. He was about to set the gun down, but that wasn't what happened. His face went gripping with effort and put the revolver up to his chin. "Yeah, boys," Lyle spoke. "This's scary." "You put my gun down, Jackson," Derek said, subdued. He moved forward another step and Lyle backed away. "I really mean it," he pressed. A vein in the man's neck bulged to the size of an earthworm, and another grew on his forehead. Derek moved forward, grabbed Lyle by the arm, and shook him thick. "But I do, Scar," Lyle Jackson said. "To be chill, I need to do it. I have to show the game of risk we be in." He brought the gun down, momentarily, and made a thin smile. Then the gun came back under his chin and he pulled the trigger twice in quick succession. "No second guesses." "I hate you," Derek said as his hands went to seize his gun. "Be cool, fool." Lyle snatched up the solids and inserted them into the cylinder. Then Lyle gave Derek, who's lips curled in rage, the gun back. "Johnny Ace," Dennis chimed in. "That's who I'm expectin you to be. Give it a fourth go, blow them ten-cent brains away." Lyle grabbed the Coleman lantern and made a frown. It seemed like the whole room shifted. "Now who's the real dookie?" What he didn't see, had no way to see, was Carter standing behind him, arms crossed. "Hands up, motherfuckers." "Oh shit," Derek swore. "You better not make a move," Carter said, dropping right behind him. A hand of his moved to the holster attached to his hip, and Lyle guessed he'd seen the shindig go. Carter spun him grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. And, what Lyle started to see, a couple heads popped into the doorway. Lyle coughed a hacky one and said, "What kind of bull y'pulling?" Carter, as a black soldier pulled into the room, thankfully kept his lips tucked in. Malcolm reached them and took a sight at Derek. It was like looking for a pig in a python. "The gun. What do you need it for?" "Your gun. What y'eed it for?" "Because," Malcolm said. "We're in some canned hell." Derek got a kick out of that. "You want it, don'tcha?" "Give it to me. I'd like for you to do that." "Caint." Derek smiled, and recoiled back a foot. A quick breeze hit outside the room. It sounded like knocking on hollow wood, thundering rustles. Lilian, behind Carter's right shoe, gave Nolan this sort of ersatz look. Before he could fully get what she meant, he saw Carter about to unholster. He, to his surprise, blew straight towards the man and grabbed up his left arm. He winced. Nolan leaned in and said, "Keep it to yourself." "Get your hand off me." Carter wrestled with Nolan's fingers, until finally he was freed. By then, silence had taken over and Malcolm was getting ready to speak. He gazed at Lyle for a long while and Nolan thought that's how he might've looked if he'd seen a coyote attacking his cabin. "Get your paws off me," Carter Jameson said and tore back two feet. "He got a name?" Malcolm asked Lyle. He is talking about Derek Woods. "Assfunk." "I'm Dennis Johnson, sonuva shortstop." Dennis wiped his face, rubbed some snot off, and held his hand out to Derek. "Name's Scarface''." "Pleased to meet you, Johnson." Malcolm smiled. "He's got a legal name?" "Derek." Nolan spoke for him. "Derek–''fucking–Woods." Carter backed up from Nolan, staring wickedly at him. His arm burned, that was a given. But Nolan had grabbed him a great mile above the elbow, not the wrist. Whatever it was, Carter looked dumbfounded. "I'll tell you what," Malcolm started. "This is your room for the night." "That so?" Derek said. "That's so." Malcolm repeated. "Cool." It was then that Lyle voiced a grunt from where he stood. He moved in front of Derek and his teeth crept out at Malcolm. "What are you trying to start?" "Nothing," the sergeant said, innocently. "All you people are so scared of me." Lyle said that now with all teeth, full snide. He took a step back, landing on the guest's bed. Something gurgled in his guts, tugged at his chest, and made his throat scream dark. "Sometimes I'd agree with ya. But now it ain't me you gotta worry about. True to my words, no gimmicks." He unveiled his shirt, and rubbed what he could see of chest. It was a grayish brown under the kerosene flame. "Nolan here offed the cop. I took the beating as a price. So what are you gonna do, Malcolm?" "I'm thinking." "Well think what'll happen if I killed you," he said. "Pop, one to the head. Who'll stop me?" Malcolm raised a brow. "What do ya think'll happen if I say," he went on: "Tried it right now." "That won't happen," Malcolm assured. Lyle snapped a finger at Derek. "Four shots. Your's might as well be empty, Carter's got four, and Amanda's got a few from the bozo." "And?" "I'll tell you what." Lyle stiffened up, eyes glaring at the man. "There'll be no soul to stop me from ripping your dam heart out. Wasn't one back at the school, when I left Brock for dead." He started to laugh now, and didn't see when a couple feet started to file closer to them. Carter whipped out his pistol then. He held it at the man, watching him choke through his laughter. Laughter, that's all it was. He imagined pulling the trigger. "Git." He looked to see Derek's revolver in his face. Derek moved at him, inching the gun closer and closer. Carter, like all animals when facing fear are inclined to do, hogged Derek one mean punch. Derek balanced himself. Carter grabbed him. Derek pushed. There was a ripping sound and Carter spun him around and knocked him into the wall. Carter turned his head to Malcolm, who was unshakably calm and collected. "What do you think?" he sounded exasperated. He reeled Derek back in and then struck the wall with him twice. Derek was a feather. Hector Pacino was on his knees beside them, patting off the floor until he snagged Derek's revolver. "The lamp," Nolan sputtered, "goddam you, the lamp." He watched Hector collide with it and caught it in the nick of time. He held the lantern up and flashed it into Hector's face. "Hey born-again dumbass." Nolan got in one blow. It struck Hector's gut and stuck there, the man bending over and letting go of the revolver. Nolan never did see where it'd dropped, so he assumed the cop-o had neither the chance nor bread to look to see. "Enough!" Malcolm shouted, his voice breaking with dread."No more!" He gave Carter one look. Carter released his grip and pushed Derek back. Malcolm turned to find the door filled still with people. He peered at them and told Officer Olson to give him a moment. He came back , shut the door, and told Nolan to set the lamp down. He didn't mind Hector staying. "Did you?" Malcolm said to Lyle. "Did you do it?" "You'd want to hear my side of it," Lyle said. "Otherwise, you'd lose it afore I get to the real truth. You'll hear my words wrong, sir. To be truthful about this, I don't trust you." "Boy," Malcolm said, and looked him dead. "It'd be in your holy hell good intentions to tell me what you did to the man." "Didn't hurt him'er nothing," Lyle reasoned. "Did what I did. Saved what I could muster. I won't tell you nothing else. I know nothing." "Would if you could." "Damn shame that I can't." Lyle finished rubbing his chest, felt better. He laid his back flat on the bed. Had he the moment, he'd sleep in that body for all eternity. He frowned and looked at Malcolm, "What did you tell her?" Amanda. He was talking about Amanda. Malcolm replied, "I know nothing." "Hey," Nolan said from afar. "What's going to be the plan?" "We take a right out of the city, head to the nearest stop. Might take a while to get there. Not sure how we'll find it in ourselves to get you bunch there." "Have you looked outside? I think the danger's clearin." "Not that," Malcolm said, and he lined up with the other two powerheads. A vein swelled a violent dark on his neck. "I'll be glad to hear what the four of you have coming. You's a murderer, cold blooded. Other left a man of high status for dead." "High status?" Malcolm shook his head, almost as if ignoring what he'd said. "Carter, Hector," he began, then settled with a deep breath. "You two with me. You'll want to lock the door on your way out." He turned and started towards the way he'd strutted in. Nolan saw him glance at his gun, the one he'd spent up. He got another look 'mongst the men before Carter went to shut it. "What's this for?" He asked innocently. "You got the assault on a cop," Malcolm scolded. "What else you think they'll be charged with?" "Conspiracy to commit murder," Carter said. "Hell to that," Hector said. "These are hooligans." That's when Nolan knew hell had frozen over. They couldn't prove a darned thing. He rolled up his sleeve, realizing the other had been torn off. He was about to speak. "I didn't kill nobody," Lyle spoke in a mumble. "I stole." "Tell it to the judge," Hector said bluntly. Dennis appeared right beside his pal Nolan, shoulders slack. "Watch them leave us here f'good." "No," Malcolm assured. "As long as you have those teeth, don't worry about going hungry. We're going real soon." He flapped one hand at Carter, then spoke something into Hector's ear. Nolan watched in great interest, eyes tense on them enough to snap black ice. Then Hector, laughing and grinning back to his ol' self, walked away. Could be better, Nolan thought. Carter moved to close the door, and was ready to do so this time when Nolan called for him. "Carter, don't. You think this over." "I did," Carter said hoarsely. "Now you get back to your cocksuckin buddies." That was all he got to. Carter pulled the door and shut it, then the crack of lock on the other end. It echoed through the cold, heavy room once but Nolan heard the door shut about a dozen more times in his head before he'd given up counting. It was a given. He was going to do something. Felt the strength to run the door down, lock and all blazes of hell. Nothing happened. He didn't stop gazing at the door, the whole world seemed to freeze over from spine to mere ass. Could have been worse. "Midnight's good to me," Derek said from the back. He'd found his revolver, stuck in his fingers. "It's king." "Yo, Doughboy. You listen to me." Lyle chuckled from the bed, a rag draped over his face. "Don't cross a man who's not 'fraid a death." "Shit, that'll be the day." Derek grinned, toying around with the gun's cylinder before snapping it back into play. "These dumbasses." ---- Hours before came a storm. Ago it'd been brewing, howling winds through evergreen trees that lined the avenue. A brilliant sheet of white covered the air, making everything appear as outlines. Before he could see as far as Summercreek burning under the day's sun, a half-hour before the parking lot, and now most of all things were thin outlines on pale paper. From in the attic, Eugene was safe. "Jeepers, creepers." There is a freezing chill in the air. The winter's wind beat against the window he looked out of. Eugene put a hand to it, the cold biting into his frozen-stiff skin. A breath of his rose in a visible puff. He was grinning to himself. The cold brought him back to the past–Christmas eve with Caroline and her pa. That was the time. Where were they now, he wondered. Long nights, short days. Wayne had left him bottled water. Good man. The candy striper, whatsherface, sat barely two feet away. He hadn't marked her name down yet, was more a face-guy. Back in the days of the burning bush, Eugene remembered the kid he'd gave a left blow to the face. The faggot had come showing off his new junkshop shoes, so Eugene did him a deserved favor. Sent the kid to the infirmary. Had himself a laugh. Come to think of it, the kid did have a nice pair of shoes. It'd be all fun and games. She wore her jean jacket with the sleeves rolled down. He glanced at her, and to his amateurish surprise, she locked eyes with his. She had these pearl-blue dyed lips, cheeks red at the centers. This Davis girl could've easily been in Top Model, or more realistically, Indy's Best-Innies. He could have kissed her. A slow buzzard flew by. "Just enough snow to last until summer. Look at those flakes, snowflakes. Makes me feel kinda bad for the birds, but they'll come back. They'll come back in the way blue's not green. Come back in the way folks'll get back here to worship. Don'tcha think?" Eugene had, for his sake, nothing to spill. He folded his hands into one, let his teeth chatter and clatter. Then he laughed again like a clogged drain hungering for a bottle of Liquid Plumr. As a matter of fact, he'd totally showed them who was boss. Think, for a moment, that gun in his hands. Pow, one to the head. Saved the soldier a shoefull of years older than he. Eugene didn't even notice he was smiling. Life, for Eugene Miller, at that point could not have been anymore better. "Cheesus," he said, "I could kiss you." A pair of hands rose up from the trapdoor. It was Carter. "Hey, you two stay put." Kerry up and asked, "Where's my dad?" "He's resting below you." Eugene noticed that they weren't to a face, instead a shadow in the harsh dark. "What happened to that man?" Carter said nothing and he rose up a foot or three up the hole. Then worse, he growled. "He's resting below you too," Carter grinned and slipped out the hole. He fell into the hallway, steadied the ladder, and scanned right and left. The hallway was near empty. To his left, Gordon lay on a bed with a blanket over his face. Wayne was there too, dead asleep. At the far end of the hall, Hector stood with a cloud of newfound pride in front of that one room with the demons. Carter figured, in a way, Hector was guarding the path into hell. He commended that in an officer of the law. He walked on, reaching the head of the stairs. Carter looked back and, thankfully, Hector was stumbling into a slumber. Something then pained Carter under his armpit. His fingers were quick to rub whatever hurt near his ribs. Then Carter saw the stairway, leading down was all steps. He slipped down them, half expecting a bat to jump out at him hollering. Nothing. At the base of the stairs, a couple sofas and tabletops and desks littered around. About the pews, shambling stiffs. One cocked her head at him. Another lurched forward, eyes bugging out. Then from the side, a man came at a fast pace from the gift shop. He could just about make of what he was, a nasty businessman. Carter went for his gun. The man came on, first running then on a limp. That was when Carter noticed the man's worn out legs were a bloody mess around the knees. The man limped forward, fingerless arms spreading at Carter. Carter backed up one step, but not one step more. He took the side. A gurgling scream came from the man, and the others followed like thousands of cicadas in a backyard at night. Laughter. Laughter filled his head. In a wild throw, the businessman doubled his size and went at him. The man was heavy, God, was he. Carter pushed the man off and jumped scared. He moved along the side, the stiffs trailing. This wasn't making any sense, none atall. The businessman turned out to be the fastest among the six. Carter had to punch him once. His head snapped back and whined. The others were coming greedily. The man sneered and growled, grabbing Carter's shoulder. Carter jerked loose and winded up at the last feet of churchfloor. The door was open. Here they followed. Now outside it was dark, and he meant what he saw. Carter'd never been much of a morning person, but he could tell it should have been burning day right then. Before the crazies caught up, and they did, a raven called out. The business man reached him, snatched up his shirt. Carter pushed and backed away, hitting his ass into the snow. Snow, it'd snowed. Far away in the fumes of black, he made out the outline of a woman walking towards the church. Here they all were, out in the fresh white hell. Carter slid away like a rat from a broom. Covered in the snow, he moved nothing. She still came, from what Carter saw. The business man lost interest to Carter and moved at her with the others. Being the fastest, he was the first to go down when she slashed him with a mystery knife. And, Holy Moses, it was Lilian in the flesh. She finished one after another, a brute in the flesh. Two were left, and she struck one about five or seven times over. Carter closed his eyes for the last one. "Sunshine ..." Carter had no time to wonder, no time for pondering. He worked his way under the snow, his ribs now thrashing at his sides. He then couldn't move anymore, the pain was just too great. From what still survived of army code in him–God, duty, honor, country–now all disappeared. In that instant, he felt like the snow. Wasn't alive, something. And when Lilian came close enough, so-close that she'd step right on him, he did something. He thrashed around and she fell not a foot outside King's. There was one benefit of a sunless, bastard morning; that was people could not see people. Carter moved up, rose on two feet, and hissed lowly. All pain, all game. "Who's there?" Lilian asked, covered in snow. She was about to get away. Carter kept quiet. Lilian then saw and shouted his name. "You messed up comin out here." “No. Please, no!” His name. He dropped beside her. Lilian tried to make sense of it. She swung once and hit his sides, beat at his chest. Carter, shaking his head, shook it off angrily. His nose wrinkled at the smell of death around him. But like how in hell this lady'd decided to stroll into a danger zone, Carter put it like an egg to the side. He clasped her shoulders and shook some more. The darkness, what Lilian thought was choking her, grounded her. And then, all darkness in her head came. Carter saw it in her eyes, that's why the boy let go. "Cause," said Carter. "It's a dog-eat-dog world." He leaned in, under the shroud of darkness, and sniffed. Then, as far as it'd go, jerked his head back and slammed his mouth on her shoulder. Teeth popped out, an excitement in him. A snapping came, and his teeth bloodied. He'd tasted smoked ham before. Roasted ham. He gulped, bobbed back his head and tore in some more. It felt so good. Meat never felt so good. Ba da dat daa daaa. He gobbled down what was between his teeth. She ain't lovin' it. Issues Category:Step by Step Category:Category:Step by Step Issues Category:Issues